We find an empty changing room at the lodge.
Despite leaning his weight on me with an arm wrapped around my shoulders, Diego limped all the way to here, occasional hisses escaping from between his gritted teeth. Seeing him like this breaks my heart, but I’m going to do everything I can to help him.
I lower him down on a bench against a row of lockers and unzip his coat.
“I’ll be back,” I whisper.
He nods and proceeds to take off his helmet, his movements filled with pent-up frustration. When I come back five minutes later with a cup of tea and bottled water, his head is tipped back on the lockers, his coat and fleece sweater draped over the bench, leaving him in a white base-layer that stretches taut around his muscled chest.
He peers at me, his jaw tensing. Accepting the bottle I hand him, he brushes his cold fingers to mine and whispers, “Thank you.”
He gulps half the water down, then reaches for the cup of tea. As I take a seat next to him, making sure to leave enough space between us even though I want to comfort him, I observe the way he cradles the cup to let its warmth seep through his skin.
I don’t say anything because I don’t want to push him. I give him space, time, to reflect on what he’s done and decide if he wants to share his thoughts with me. He knows, though, that I’m here – no matter what.
Diego stares absently at the tiled floor, a heavy sigh flying through his nose. “I fucked up, Alara.” His voice cracks on the last syllable of my name, mirroring the way my heart splinters at the sight of his torment. “I fucked up so bad.”
“What happened?” I ask softly.
The motion of me moving to unzip my ski suit has him turning to look me in the eyes. It’s painful to see him angry and disappointed at himself.
“Yesterday” – he quickly pauses to clear his throat – “Dr Ellis didn’t tell me no.”
I tilt my head to the side, trying to recall what he’s told me about his physiotherapy session, but aside from telling me he would be gone in a few weeks, he hadn’t said much.
Seeing my confusion, he continues. “I asked him if there was any way I could start riding again. Maybe an easy trail at the resort, and his answer was that we’d see how things gonext week. I’ve been feeling confident lately, and I thought that maybe – if I could – if I just proved—”
“Take your time.” I take the cup away from his shaking hands and set it aside. “Breathe for me.”
He nods, inhaling through his nose and expelling through his mouth, before settling his attention on the wall across from him. “I wanted to prove to everyone that I was ready to ride again.”
“But are you?” I shift to rest my shoulder against the locker so that I can face his profile. The lack of answer makes me ask another question. “Have you been lying about your pain?”
Swallowing thickly, he nods, then passes his fingers through his hair frustratedly.
“Why?” I ask him, when he doesn’t say more. I knew he’d been keeping the truth to himself, but at what expense?
With his head still tipped back, he slowly turns to meet my eyes. Chagrin. Desperation. Anguish. Flickers of sadness. I hate seeing him like this. “Because I’m tired,” he answers, his voice breaking again. “I hate that I’ve failed Coach. I hate to think he could replace me and that I might not compete in the Nationals or, worse, the Olympics. My career could be over in the blink of an eye. I can’t let that happen. Snowboarding has been my main focus my whole life, and it’s my fault that I’m here. But it’s been easier to pretend and lie to everyone because I thought that it would make me get back to training faster.”
I’ve always been able to see beneath his mask, but this is the most vulnerability he’s shown since we became friends, and it means so much. It means so much that he’s letting me in.
He reaches for my hand as if he can’t combat the urge to touch me, and I brush the back of his with the pad of my thumb. He continues, quietly, “I thought that Dr Ellis would give me the green light if I continued to lie to him.”
“But what if you’d worsened your injuries once back at training?”
“I don’t know. I just miss it. I don’t want anything else other than riding.”
But why do I feel as though he’s hiding something else?
“I know,” I whisper. I’m now holding his hand between both of mine, right atop my thigh. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them away. “You can’t keep lying, especially to yourself.”
“Yeah.” His attention drifts to my mouth for a fraction of a second before moving back up. “I’m failing everyone around me, Alara. Myself included. I feel like I’m barely progressing, that my pain doesn’t want to go away. Pretending is so much easier than facing reality.”
“You’ve been in denial and that’s okay. You just have to be patient. Everybody heals at a different pace, but you’ve got to put your mind to it too. You’re such a determined and persistent person, and you’ll get there if you keep working hard, but you can’t rush the process. And you’ll also get there if you allow yourself to rest, breathe, and unwind. When’s the last time you really rested? Took time for yourself? You haven’t stopped once ever since you got here because of what Coach Wilson asked of you. I know he’s the one holding your entire future in his hands, but if he only knew how well you’ve been progressing, he’d be proud.”
Diego takes a few seconds to process what I’ve said. “He wouldn’t be proud of what I just did.”
“No, he would certainly be furious. But you know why? Because he doesn’t want to lose you and he cares about you. You’re his best rider, and your health is what matters most. Fuck the medals and titles – your top priority now is yourself. You won’t be able to train and compete if you accumulate injury after injury.”
